Snapshots
by Leaper
Summary: Bits and pieces of Dave Karofsky's life in canon, outside of canon, and beyond. A series of shorts, both original and follow-ups to existing stories, updated occasionally and hopefully perpetually.
1. A Talk With Myself

**AN: A little experiment in keeping me writing (and hoping that turns into to even more motivation for my larger projects — and/or inspires others). As the summary suggests, this'll be a bunch of shorts on various subjects that don't feel "worthy" of individual posting, added to whenever I feel like it from now until probably when this site shuts down or whatever — some related to already published material by me, some not. I've already got a few ideas in the pipeline, but I'm starting it off with this.**

Dave occasionally talked to himself — when he was working through a knotty math problem, when he was pumping himself up to get out on the gridiron or the ice, when he was nervous and about to do something he didn't want to do, but _had_ to do.

He just didn't usually do it this literally.

But there he was, standing next to his desk, staring at... himself. Same black t-shirt with a plaid short sleeved shirt over it, same jeans, same eyes, which were sparkling in amusement.

"What the fuck...?" Weak-kneed, Dave stumbled against his desk. "W-who... _what_ the fuck are you?"

Other Dave shrugged casually. "I'm your gay side."

Yes, those were words. Yes, they were in English. Yes, they were strung together in a grammatically correct sentence. Yet they _still_ didn't make any sense.

"My... what?"

Other Dave rolled his eyes. "Did I stutter?" he snapped, sounding a lot like Jack in that moment. "I said, I'm your gay side."

Dave sat heavily down on his chair. "My... gay side."

"Yep." Other Dave grinned wickedly. "The part of you that likes abs and pecs. The part of you that sneaks peeks at backup QB's asses when they're not looking. The part of you that wonders what it'd be like to suck co—"

"Okay, okay, I get it! It's just... How...?"

Other Dave snorted. "Obviously because you're dreaming."

"... Dreaming?"

"Yeah. Remember junior prom last night? You basically cried yourself to sleep. Not that there's anything wrong with that," Other Dave added with another shrug. "You're not a fucking girl if you..."

"I'm... dreaming." Dave rubbed his forehead. He was starting to remember little bits and pieces of the previous night... Dancing with Santana... Winning prom king... Then Kurt and his request...

"That's what I said, wasn't it? Shit, I'm a dumbass." Other Dave frowned. "We're a dumbass? Fuck, English grammar isn't built for this kinda thing..."

Dave closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself awake. If this was a dream, then he could wake up, right?

"Nice try," Other Dave chuckled. "You ain't waking up until we have a little talk."

"Look, what do you want?" Dave's hands flexed menacingly, though part of him wondered what exactly would happen if he were to punch himself, even in a dream...

"What I _want_ is for you to stop ignoring me. I've been here all your... our life..."

"Is that right?"

"That's right. I didn't just pop into existence just because you looked at Kurt for two seconds too long. You've done a pretty good job keeping me down, but these past few months?" Other Dave grinned again, a sharp and toothy smile that sent shudders through Dave. "I've been getting strong. _Real_ strong. It feels _good._"

"Yeah, well, fuck you! You're the reason I got humiliated in front of the entire junior class! It's your fault my life is shit!"

"My fault?!" Other Dave roared, jumping to his feet. "You know how much of a beating I've taken from _you_? How long I've spent locked up in... in that fucking stuffy _hellhole_?" He waved his arms towards the closet; the door was hanging open, crooked on its hinges, the inside surface cracked and chipped from repeated blows.

"I didn't _ask_ to be—"

"No, we didn't. But we _are_. And the sooner you fucking accept that, the sooner we can have a _life_."

"A life," Dave repeated in disbelief. "What the fuck kind of life? Living with some guy in the suburbs with a couple of dogs and a kid?"

"Would that be so bad?" Other Dave asked, his voice suddenly soft.

"I...!" He was about to yell something — something about wives and weddings and grandbabies for his mom to coo over — but somehow, nothing came out. His throat was too tight to let out anything but that one syllable.

"Look, I get it. I'm you, after all." There was something about the gentleness of the words, in his own voice, that somehow penetrated the haze of Dave's mind. "But all this shit you do to yourself... It affects me too. It fucking _hurts_." Somehow, that just made it worse — the crack in Other Dave's voice at that last word. "I'm not a monster."

Dave's reply was flat, without affect. "Yeah, well, maybe I am."

Other Dave shook his head. "See, that hurts us too. Why are you so afraid of me?"

"I'm not afraid! I... I just can't be _you_. I can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because...! Why do you even have to ask that? You know Mom! You saw what happened tonight! Why would I want even more of that?"

"Because you don't have a choice?"

"Why not?"

"Did you forget already? I'm already you. You can't change that, no matter how much you want to."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, whatever. You're just a fucking dream anyway. Besides, you're gay. How can I be...?" It hit him all at once, so hard that he almost physically felt it. His jaw dropped.

Other Dave dressed like him. He talked like him. He acted like him. He wasn't a fashion plate like Kurt or overly gelled like Blaine. He didn't swish or lisp like the stereotypes demanded.

Other Dave — gay Dave — was _exactly_ the same as him.

Other Dave nodded with a satisfied grin. "You just got it, didn't you?"

Dave swallowed. "I..."

"I still like hockey. I still like video games. I like singing and dancing too, but that's just because we always did, even if you don't break it out as much as I'd like. By the way, those moves with Santana? Smoking, even if she is a chick." Other Dave sat back down on the bed. "Another thing we have in common: I don't take shit from anyone. Especially not myself."

Dave still couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"I'm tired, dude. I'm tired of always fighting with you. I'm tired of you pushing me into that fucking closet. I want... I want to hold a guy's hand in public. I want to kiss a guy — a _real_ fucking kiss, man. I want..." Other Dave shook his head, eyes cast downward. "I want to be whole."

"... Whole?"

"We... we don't have to be you and me. In fact, it doesn't make a lot of fucking sense, does it? We can be... just one. Just Dave."

"Just gay?"

"Yeah." Other Dave looked back up with a determined gleam in his eye. "Look... Can we at least have a truce? If we keep fighting... We'll end up killing each other. 'Cause you can't get rid of me for good any other way. Because..."

"Yeah, yeah, we're the same person, I get it."

"Sometimes I don't think you do." Other Dave stood, then extended a hand. "Truce?"

Dave stared at the outstretched hand. Did he really want to do this? _Could_ he really do this?

"I swear, you don't have to come out. Just... think about it, you know? Talk to me. Yourself. Whatever. Maybe sit in the parking lot of Scandals one of these days. You don't even have to go in." The hand remained outstretched, steady and firm. "You know I'm telling you the truth. You may lie to others, you may lie to me... But I'll never be anything but honest with you. Because my existence? All about honesty." Other Dave raised an eyebrow in challenge. "So what's it gonna be? We gonna go another round, keep on going until we die? Or are you gonna man up and deal with me like a civilized fucking human being for once?"

Dave stared. Just taking that hand — just _thinking_ about taking it... It felt like stepping off the edge.

He could ignore it. Sneer at it. Answer it with a punch to his doppelganger's face. That would feel good.

But...

But...

There was something in Other Dave's eyes... Hope? Strength? Courage? All of the above?

Was it a coincidence that those were all the things that Dave desperately wanted for himself?

Before he could think twice, he raised a hand and clutched Other Dave's in a firm grip.

"Truce."

* * *

Dave blinked, wincing at the sunlight streaming through his windows. He glanced at the bedside clock; it was almost noon.

He groaned, sitting up in his bed. He'd fallen asleep in his suit, his pants legs bunched up and his coat rumpled. His face was itchy with dried moisture; he scratched at it idly.

It was weird, though. He'd fallen asleep feeling broken inside, but now...

He was feeling an odd sense of peace.

Dave had no idea where it came from, or how long it'd last, but his mind hadn't felt so clear in months.

He swung his feet onto the floor and jumped up. It was a new day, and he had a lot to think about.


	2. A Boy's Best Friend

**My idea for a point of divergence for all those Fancy!Dave and Bully!Kurt 'fics. Not so short, and kinda done to death, but hopefully good, at the least as a tribute to one or two in particular...  
**

In the end, the difference was the wind.

That was it. A subtle but definite shift in the local weather patterns — that's all it took to permanently alter lives. Was it caused by pure chance? A butterfly flapping its wings in Madagascar, or a kid throwing a rock into a pond in Louisiana? Does it matter, in the end? Perhaps to Dave Karofsky and Kurt Hummel. If they had known the minor point on which their lives turned, they would've laughed. Or raged at the heavens. Maybe both.

19 year old college student Paul Karofsky was strolling across the OSU campus in 1983, playing hooky from his late morning classes and enjoying the fall weather. He paused by a crosswalk, a decision to make. He could either continue his walk deeper into campus, or go to the nearby coffee shop for a hot drink.

Again, the difference was the wind. It picked up, blowing across young Paul and chilling him to the bone. Okay, decision made — definitely coffee.

So he turned right and headed for the coffee shop. He never passed by the bench where a young redhead named Diane Patton would've caught his eye. He never talked to her, fell in love with her, married her.

Instead, he got his coffee, and his cashier was a sweet girl his age named Elizabeth Greene. She gave him his change, and the routine gesture sent his heart racing. Acting on an impulse he knew would flee with his nerves if he didn't give in at once, Paul asked her if he could buy her a cup too. Elizabeth stared for a moment (one of the longest moments in Paul's life), then smiled. She said she was overdue for her break, and she liked hers with milk and sugar.

That was the beginning.

* * *

Meanwhile, the friend Diane Patton was waiting for finally arrived. She was full of apologies, telling Diane that she'd met this _hot_ frat guy who'd invited her to a party that very weekend, and could Diane come with her for moral support and besides she never seemed to leave the dorm so _please_? Diane shook her head with a smile and said yes.

The party was strictly by-the-book: the music was too loud, the beer was too cheap, and the making out too public. It was by pure chance that Diane literally ran into one of the other guests, an old high school friend of one of the fraternity members, named Burt Hummel. If she'd known him better then, she would've realized immediately he was smitten; he didn't drink another drop of beer the rest of that night. Instead, they found a quiet corner and just... talked.

That was the beginning.

* * *

In time, rings were bought, veils lifted, and families begun. Genetics is a capricious force, not that anyone involved could fully grasp the irony. How could they, with their ignorance of what could've been? Even with the different paths the relationships and DNA took, there were many things about the results that were still somehow the same.

Burt and Diane Hummel had a son they named Kurt. If, in another time and place, Kurt's hair was a little darker, a little straighter... That didn't make much of a difference. Either way, he would still be the same lanky, porcelain-skinned young man, much like his paternal grandmother.

Paul and Elizabeth Karofsky had two sons: Jack and David. David was a large child from his birth. Elizabeth dryly blamed her birthing pains on his father's genes, which Paul accepted with sheepish grace.

But genetics is far from the only influence that can shape a person.

* * *

When Kurt was little, he asked his mommy for a pair of sensible heels. Diane laughed. It was gentle, not at all mocking, but Kurt felt his stomach falling into a pit.

"Oh, Kurt," she said, stroking his hair, "heels are for girls like Mommy. You're not a girl, are you?" He shook his head. "We'll get you a nice pair of sneakers like your Daddy's. How about that? Won't that be fun?"

Because he loved his mommy, Kurt nodded, and never brought up heels again.

* * *

When David was little, he made friends with a boy named Perry at his day care. One day, on the drive home, after nearly talking himself out of breath telling his parents about what he and Perry did that day (it was such a packed narrative full of coloring and snacks and running around that Paul was nearly exhausted by just listening), David declared, "I love Perry. We're going to get married." It was full of the seriousness only a child of that tender age could muster. "Can I, Mommy?"

Elizabeth turned around in her seat and smiled. "Only if you invite us to the wedding, sweetie."

Because he loved his mommy, David readily agreed, and chattered about how he and Perry would live with Mommy and Daddy all the way home.

* * *

Marrying a different man did nothing to change the cancerous cells Elizabeth's body created.

Her husband and sons visited her at the hospital every day. Jack became withdrawn; as the elder son, his sense of his mother slipping away was sharper than his brother's. David still asked every visit when Mommy would come home. Even Jack couldn't bring himself to burst out with the angry correction he sometimes wanted to make.

One visit, Elizabeth and David were alone in the hospital room while Paul and Jack were getting food. Her cheeks were starting to hollow, but her eyes still sparkled with life. "David..." she said to her son.

"Yes, mommy?"

"Mommy loves you very much. You know that, right?"

David was just starting to get the idea that maybe his mommy wouldn't be coming home. He sniffled, but did nothing else; he had to be strong for her. "Uh huh."

Elizabeth thought for a moment, thought of the little boy who wanted to marry boys and didn't have the same interests that his big brother had, before speaking again. "You're such a sweet, smart, brave boy. I know you'll always make the right choices. So I want you to always be true to yourself and do what you want in life. Whoever you are and whatever you do, you be proud of yourself, okay? Never let anyone else tell you that you're weak or worthless. You're a very special young man, and no matter what, mommy will always love you and be proud of you. I just want you to be happy, and that means doing what makes you happy and being yourself. Promise?"

David barely felt the hot tears slipping down his cheeks. "I promise, mommy."

Elizabeth nodded, wiping his tears away, before closing her eyes to rest. By the time his father and brother returned, she was asleep.

When they buried her, David hoped that she was still asleep until the instant the coffin came to a rest under the ground. He wanted to pound on the box, beg his mommy to come back.

But even then, he knew she wouldn't. Well, if she wasn't, he was going to make sure that she would smile at him in heaven.

He was going to make his mommy proud.

* * *

Burt Hummel's garage was just starting to take off. That meant a lot of days working, a lot of nights with the books. That meant having to depend on his wife to raise their son.

But why not? He was providing for his family, and he made sure to make the most of his precious time home. When his business was more secure, when he found the right man to delegate responsibility to... Then he'd be able to catch his breath, spend more time with his son. Until then, he trusted Diane to do right by their child.

Kurt, in the meantime, loved his mommy. He knew, for a fact, that his mommy loved him. But he was a perceptive child, so he knew... He knew that there was always that little tiny caveat.

"Mommy loves you, Kurt." That's what she always said, and he knew she meant it.

But...

"Mommy loves you, Kurt." That was said.

"... _but I would love you more if_..." That was never said aloud, but said all the same.

_If you played sports instead of doing those tea parties._

_If you wore that t-shirt instead of that silly bow tie._

_If you had more boys as friends instead of all those girls.  
_

When Kurt asked his mother if he could play Little League (even though he privately thought baseball was boring), the bright smile that lit up her face told him he was doing the right thing.

He was going to make his mommy proud.

* * *

David's young life was a whirlwind of activity. He told his father he wanted to dance, so after school and weekends were one dance lesson after another. Jazz, tap, hip-hop, even ballet for a year and a half, before he decided that the formal world of classical dance wasn't for him. As he grew older, the range expanded. A little ballroom dancing here, a little salsa there. It didn't matter. He loved it.

Jack teased his brother behind his father's back, but he came home more than once with black eyes and bruises after beating up classmates who dared do the same.

Paul paid the teachers and went to the recitals; he was often one of the first on his feet to applaud. He'd... wondered a little, in the beginning, about his son and his interests, was a little uncomfortable (he was still a small town Midwestern boy at heart, after all).

But then he remembered Elizabeth, her love and compassion and open mindedness, the very things he himself fell for. He remembered how she always told her sons to do what they loved — that as long as they were happy, they could be anyone they wanted to be, and she'd still be proud of them.

So he went along with what David wanted. As time passed, he thought about it less and less, until he didn't think his son's interests were anything unusual at all. Where he once went to performances with that little guilty fear in the back of his mind that the other parents would see and disapprove, he now went to them eager, always in awe of the grace and confidence contained in David's husky body. And when he secretly caught David shyly holding hands with a boy in his tap class, he was neither surprised nor upset. Hell, he thought it was kind of (to use one of Elizabeth's favorite words) adorable.

He supposed, in the end, that he was trying to make Elizabeth proud of him too.

* * *

Kurt once got an expensive designer angora wool sweater from his aunt for Christmas. He itched to wear it, but happened to see his mother roll her eyes the instant it came out of the box. So it went into storage.

He got better at baseball; in fact, he grew to enjoy it. Sort of. A little. (When he looked back on it later, he had no idea whether he actually enjoyed it, enjoyed any of the other things he did as a kid, or if he'd just conditioned himself to enjoy it so much that he actually grew to believe the lies he told himself. In his darker moments, he wondered if his entire personality was constructed out of lies.) Or maybe what he enjoyed was seeing his parents cheering in the stands, running up to him afterward telling him how proud they were.

Unfortunately, his stature wasn't catching up with the rest of the boys. "Don't worry," his mom said, "your grandpa Murray was short at your age, and you know how tall he is now!" Still, it didn't help his confidence to be the shortest guy on the team... Not that the funny feelings he got in the locker room did any good either...

So he asked his mom if he could sign up for martial arts lessons. She was more than delighted to help him pick. In the end, they started with good old fashioned karate. In the ensuing years, he'd dabble in the other usual suspects: judo, aikido, even krav maga. Learning that his size wasn't the debilitating disadvantage he'd feared (and could even be an advantage at times) was the key. He (as his mother would often proudly tell her friends) flourished. As he began moving up in martial arts ranks, and the Little League team winning games, she even started letting him skip church on Sundays. There was, after all, so much a boy that age could do with his time, and she felt more and more confident every day that she and Father Mitchell had already set him firmly on the moral path in life.

One night, while Kurt played video games (always FPSs and fighting games; never those girly rhythm games or boring RPGs), his parents watched him from the kitchen.

"He's really growing up," Burt remarked.

"He's becoming a fine young man," Diane agreed. "I'm so proud of him."

"Me too. He seems happier these days."

"'Happier'? You mean there was a time when he wasn't?"

Burt shrugged. "I dunno. There was this time when he was little that I thought..." He shook his head. "I was probably wrong. That was when I was spending a lot of time at the shop. I hate not having been around then."

"Well, you're here now, and you've been a terrific dad to your son." She pecked her husband on the cheek. "He's going to grow up to be a fine, strong man. Just like his daddy."

Something about her words stirred a vague, distant thought in Burt Hummel, a thought that made him uncomfortable. But he dismissed it. His business was picking up, his wife was making her mark in the local business world, his son was thriving. What could be wrong?

* * *

Kurt's future was set when his mother died when he was nine. It was senseless and stupid; a driver going too fast on the interstate cut across multiple lanes to make her exit. She was eventually convicted of multiple counts of vehicular manslaughter, including that of Diane Hummel.

At the grave site, Burt hugged his son tightly and promised Kurt, through his tears, that they'd get through this together. Kurt returned the embrace, just as tightly, but without tears.

Tears, he'd decided, were for girls.

Not that his dad was a girl, of course, but he was an adult. For someone who wanted to be a man, for a real man, the kind that Father Mitchell preached about and that would make his mom happy... It was unacceptable.

He had to be strong. For his mom. He knew what he _wasn__'t_: one of _those_ people, the kind she saw on TV or, rarely, in the streets, the kind who drew disgusted head shakes and a quick turn in another direction. He didn't know what they were, precisely, or what they were called — his parents frowned on bad words of all kinds. He just knew that they were girly, they were _wrong_. And his mom didn't like them.

Well, he wasn't like them anyway. He'd make his mommy proud.

He was a man.

* * *

David's future was set when he came out to his father when he was thirteen. The declaration was simple, straightforward, and no nonsense. He hoped that his dad would accept him, but he was fully prepared with a plan if the worst happened — a plan Paul later found out included a packed duffel bag and his grandparents on speed dial. To David's relief, those plans weren't needed; Paul merely nodded, hugged his son, and said, "we need to talk about sex," which not only defused the tension (just under the surface, humming like a power line, despite David's confidence and Paul's understanding), but also achieved a rarity of rarities: David shell shocked and speechless. By the time Paul pulled out the pamphlets he'd gotten at the local clinic, David was as red as a tomato (Jack happened to pass by, and took photos with his phone that would haunt his little brother for decades).

David had grown up, maybe a little too fast for Paul's tastes. Maybe it was his sexuality; having to deal with the societal consequences at such an early age... Or maybe it was the promise he'd made to his mother; Paul sometimes wondered if David was putting too much pressure on himself, trying to be and do too much before he was even an adult. Either way, his son was certainly growing up physically; he was already a large, sturdy kid, much as his old man had been at that age. His dancing kept him in shape, making him look more like an athlete than the sensitive artist he actually was. Yet this was still the same boy who played happily with his baby cousins, collected stray animals like stamps, and cried at the movies.

Jack pretended to roll his eyes and tease, but Paul knew the truth — knew by the fierceness of Jack's glare whenever he overheard someone use an anti-gay slur, by the GSA that had somehow sprung up at Jack's high school, by Jack's presence at every one of David's dance performances, no matter how bored he claimed he was.

And David was good — really good. The grace and ease that Paul had so admired had only grown with years and experience. Best of all, David loved it. Paul could see the joy every time his son took the stage, the way his face lit up and energy flashed through every step and move. When he was dancing, he wasn't the little boy Paul remembered, the one with the wide eyes and skinned knees and diapers.

He was a man.

* * *

_And so..._

"You were right!" Mercedes Jones appeared as if by magic at her best friend's side, handing him the burnt DVD. "It was _so_ good. I cried like a baby!"

"I _know_!" David Karofsky grinned triumphantly as he plucked the DVD from her fingers. "The book's even better, if you want to borrow it. But be prepared for _major_ emotional trauma."

"Maybe another time. I need to recover." She regarded her friend with a critical, yet friendly eye. "I see you've got your lucky outfit today. What's the occasion?"

David always insisted that just because he was gay didn't mean he actually had much interest or aptitude for things like fashion. But he also believed in clothes as part of self-expression — no sense hiding who you were under stuff that you didn't want to wear. That particular day, he wore a black collared shirt (that was a tad tight, the sleeves a tad short, and the material a tad thin, but Mercedes tried really hard not to notice that; she'd already embarrassed herself enough over that last year), dark blue jeans, and red sneakers. It was, as Mercedes had already noted, his "lucky outfit." "I feel good when I wear this," he'd once said. "And when you feel good, good things happen."

"Mike, Brittany, and I are almost done choreographing our routine for Regionals," David replied in the present. "It's gonna be _awesome_."

"Uh oh," Sam Evans' voice said an instant before he appeared over David's shoulder. "I've seen this movie before. That means we're going to suffer, doesn't it?"

David grinned wickedly. "Oh yeah. A lot. But you gotta sacrifice for art, right?"

Mercedes shook her head, helpless to keep a smile off her face. "You three keep forgetting we're not all dance geniuses like you guys."

"Geez, Mercedes, I'm no genius. I just worked hard. If you did what I did, you'd be as good as I am. Probably even better."

"Boo, if I did what you did, I'd have died of exhaustion before I turned ten."

All three shared a brief laugh. "Hey," Sam suddenly said, "how'd the spying at Dalton go yesterday?"

David shook his head. "Rotten. And kind of weird. But I did meet this guy who—"

"Heads up, losers!"

They barely saw the colored ice arcing towards them. Sam, being in the back, managed to duck behind David's open locker door, escaping with only a few bits of freezing cold here and there. It was the much bigger David who bore the brunt of the frigid assault. He wiped the flavored slush from his eyes, spit it out of his mouth (he hated raspberry, anyway), and sighed. "Don't you people have anything better to do?"

"Better than giving losers and fags the welcome they deserve? Never!" Kurt Hummel tossed his empty Slushie cup in the air, cackling. Behind him, his friend and compatriot George Peyton nodded with a nasty smile.

Now there was a study in contrasts: bully versus victim. Kurt Hummel looked small and scrawny, but anyone who had the misfortune to cross him knew he was anything but. Not only did he have a razor sharp tongue that could reduce a person to a quivering mass all on its own, but he could actually more than hold his own in a fight, a fact that other bullies had learned the hard way. By now, the word was out: only idiots fucked with Kurt Hummel unless they enjoyed dental work. There was a reason the McKinley High School baseball team revolved around the guy.

David Karofsky, on the other hand, looked like the one who should've been feared, given his massive stature. But quite the opposite: between his open homosexuality and his gentle nature, he quickly became a prime target amongst those trying to prove something by pushing around the huge queer. Puck had once offered fighting lessons, but David refused. "It's not who I am. Besides, I'd eventually have to get to Hummel, and do you honestly think I could take him?" No one did, not that it was an indictment of David at all. That was just the way it was.

David shook his head, accidentally dislodging a clump of Slushie onto Mercedes' shoes. She kicked it off with an annoyed frown. "I pity you, Hummel. I bet you could be a really cool guy if you weren't such an asshole all the time."

Kurt Hummel's mouth twitched, and there was something strange in his eyes — something oddly deep and menacing. But it was gone quickly, if indeed it had ever been there at all. "Whatever. If you're asking me to be your boyfriend, sorry, but you're not my type. I don't go for dancing gorillas. But if Brittany ever decides she's tired of hanging around with you clowns, tell her to give me a call. We had plenty of fun the last time around." He gave the three a mocking bow. "Until tomorrow, Prancer." He and Peyton wandered away, high fiving each other. Through it all, the milling student body around them hardly gave them a second glance.

"Lemme guess: Hummel?" Finn Hudson had chosen that moment to appear, a contrite look on his face, as if he'd been the one slinging frozen beverage.

Sam pursed his ample lips. "Good guess."

"Geez, does the guy ever let up?"

David sighed as Mercedes handed him a wet wipe. "I think the answer to that is all over me."

"Is it just me, or is he getting worse?" Mercedes chimed in.

"Christ, I hope not," David groaned. "I'd hate to think what he'd do if he got _really_ bad."

"Isn't his dad dating your mom?" Sam asked Finn, who nodded with a grimace.

"That's what I don't understand! I always thought Hummel was kind of a jerkoff, but I've met his dad, and he seems cool. I mean really cool. I don't get how someone like him could raise a douche like Hummel."

David looked down the hall Hummel had just departed down, a faraway look in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder..."


	3. Running on Adrenaline

**Another AU, 'cause it's, well, short. Relatively. Random inspiration, though it does kind of resemble a specific piece I read and enjoyed once; hopefully this is different enough to be enjoyable on its own.  
**

* * *

**2008**

Dave Karofsky squinted into the glare of lights in his face, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood under his feet, wondering what he was doing there.

"Um... What am I doing here?"

Someone in the seventh row of seats in front of him stood, a woman with long dark hair and fearfully intense eyes. He supposed he should've considered her beautiful; the fact that he didn't think anything more than "huh, she's kinda attractive" raised questions that he _really did not_ want to think about, especially considering he was already confused enough by present circumstances as it was.

"I'm Ms. Corcoran," the woman said, a force in her voice that brooked no backtalk or disagreement. "And you're here to audition for Vocal Adrenaline."

Though Dave was only one week into his first year of high school, he had, of course, heard of Vocal Adrenaline. Anyone attending Carmel High had to be deaf and blind not to at least know about it. It was the school glee club — a performing arts group. Though he, _naturally_, thought singing and dancing were kind of lame (gay), apparently they were very popular here, having won tons of awards and competitions, not to mention the backing of wealthy and influential alumni. There was, however, one problem (just one?!)...

"Uh... I didn't sign up for any auditions..."

Ms. Corcoran just stared, her arms crossed. There were snickers of derision near her. His eyes adjusting, Dave could now see that two men were sitting to either side of her. One was obviously another faculty member, with short black hair and a cravat around his neck, reminding Dave oddly of Fred from _Scooby Doo_. The other was a tall, lanky student, probably a sophomore or junior. Both were looking at him like he was slime mold.

"You didn't need to," Ms. Corcoran replied. "I audition all incoming freshmen and transfer students. I'm not about to let even the tiniest chance of missing a great talent pass."

_How is that even possible?_ Dave thought. _How does she even have the time? How does the principal let... Oh. _Dave shuffled his feet nervously, remembering how he'd gotten there in the first place. He was in English lit when _they_ came in. Dave had read in a book on pirates about "press gangs," groups in England who'd force men to become sailors in the Navy. The grim-faced group of athletic-looking upperclassmen who entered the room reminded him of them, especially when they approached his desk.

"David Karofsky?" the one in the lead asked. He'd looked around; no other student in the room was making eye contact. Even the teacher seemed fascinated by what he was writing on the whiteboard, to the exclusion of anything else going on. So he nodded mutely. "Come with us." They hadn't hauled him to his feet and carried him out of the room by his collar, but they sure looked like they would if he hesitated even a moment. So he didn't.

That was the other thing he'd heard about Vocal Adrenaline: they were _feared_. He'd even heard whispers (really really low whispers, usually preceded by a lot of looking around) that they were actually clinically _insane_. Well, one thing he knew about insane people with power: you had to humor them if you were going to escape with your skin intact. And even though the stage around him _seemed_ empty, he almost imagined he could see figures dressed in black lurking in the darkness, ready to jump him or tase him if he tried to bolt. He swallowed.

Ms. Corcoran cleared her throat; his attention jumped back to her. She regarded him with a piercing gaze that seemed to be trying to read his soul. Dave shuddered. "Low tenor or baritone..." She paused a moment in thought. "Do you know 'Come Fly With Me'?"

Dave nodded; his dad was a fan of old-style crooners, and enjoyed playing their songs at home. He'd introduced Dave to Michael Buble, calling him "the best hope this generation has of bringing back the classic sound." Though Dave never really admitted it to anyone, he'd _liked_ it; he spent a lot of time in the initial months after first listening locked in his room listening and singing/bopping along. He'd stopped though; it gave him a sense of shame he didn't really fully understand. Not that he had much of a choice now.

"Good." She nodded towards the side of the stage; a piano (how had he not noticed an entire _piano_ there all this time?) started playing.

Much later, Dave realized that if he'd been thinking, he could've just stood there like a wide-eyed deer in headlights, and everything that happened afterward could've been avoided. Hell, he was three quarters of the way there already all on his own. But he didn't think of it, so he didn't. Besides... was _everything_ that happened afterward all that bad? A lot of it, sure, but all...?

At any rate, thanks to the staring eyes, the spotlights, and the piano marching inexorably towards his cue, he was actually surprised to hear the voice coming out of his throat:

_Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away..._

His voice scratched at the last word; he quickly cleared his throat and continued.

_If you can use  
Some exotic booze  
There's a bar in far Bombay..._

As he continued, there was another surprise in store: he started actually getting into it. He forgot about the lights, the audience, the conscription, his mom's raised eyebrows. He started to move from his ramrod straight, hands-at-sides position, sway a little, unconsciously. He didn't see Ms. Corcoran watching, the older guy stroking his chin, the younger raising his own eyebrows. He was back in his room, his computer speakers cranked, Mom and Dad and Jack away. It was only him.

_You just say the words  
And we'll beat the birds_  
_ Down to Acapulco Bay_...

Soon he was done; Dave blinked, having lost all sense of time. The last notes of the piano faded away; there was dead silence. The three people in the audience still stared; the only movement was on the part of Ms. Corcoran, who tapped a pen against her hand. Dave felt oddly nervous, considering he hadn't wanted to audition in the first place.

Finally, Ms. Corcoran turned to the older man. "Well?"

"He's a little overweight..." Dave flushed. "... But he looks like he can do lifts. I can work with it."

Ms. Corcoran nodded and turned to the student to her left. He merely nodded silently. With that, she rose. "You're in."

"I, uh..." Dave was not entirely sure how to feel about this. "Okay...?"

"You're in," Ms. Corcoran repeated. It was a statement of fact, not an invitation.

"Uh, gotcha..." Dave's throat felt too dry to even swallow.

"We start rehearsal at 2:30 today. Be there."

"2:30... Isn't that before school—?"

"Yes," was all Ms. Corcoran said. It sunk in for a moment, and Dave realized she didn't have to say anything else.

"I'll... be there... ma'am."

Ms. Corcoran nodded again. "You're learning. Good. We'll make a performer out of you yet." She looked down at a clipboard as the two men started whispering to her. Obviously he was being dismissed.

Dave slowly inched off the stage, his knees weak. He felt like he'd just run the Ironman with both legs tied together.

Ah, well, at least now he had an extracurricular. And it was just a glee club. How hard could it be?

* * *

**2010**

They'd won. They'd actually won.

There were so many teammates treating it as a _fait accompli_ that Dave was starting to get nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But there it was. They were going to Nationals.

The rush of victory upon him, Dave actually forgot for a few moments what it had taken to get there. The things he'd done, the things he'd outright refused to do, the _other_ things he'd been forced to do instead of the things he refused to do. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten to this point with his sanity intact (he completely understood how some of his fellows simply gave in; maybe, some deeply buried part of him said, he was stronger than he thought), but he was grateful.

And they were _going to fucking Nationals_!

In the tumult, he caught a glimpse of New Directions, the group from Lima. They looked varying shades of stunned, angry, and dejected. Not that he could blame them. He'd been opposed to the whole spy run thing to begin with, not that he was stupid enough to voice his objections out loud, especially not when St. James was so keen on the idea. As for the rest, his toilet papering had been half-hearted, his eggs barely making it half a foot away from his hand. Fortunately, no one had noticed — not that it helped his guilt. It all just felt too much like _bullying_ to him.

The celebrations over, the groups started to disperse. New Directions was almost slouching off the stage. Something in Dave twitched. He slipped away from his smug, cheering teammates and approached the McKinley club. His arm shot out, grabbing the closest member to him. "Uh, excuse me..."

The boy he'd grabbed turned. He was brown haired, porcelain skinned — even in his performance costume, he exuded prim and proper. He raised an imperious eyebrow, and Dave's heart jumped.

Dave had changed a lot since he'd joined (been shanghaied into) Vocal Adrenaline. He was a lot fitter, for one — he had to be, to keep up with the exhausting rehearsal schedule without the... extreme measures a majority of his teammates took. He was actually popular — no, more like feared, just because he was in Vocal Adrenaline; he wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd found a love (and some small measure of talent) for performing he hadn't realized he even had. But there was something else too, something he hadn't quite fully dealt with yet.

* * *

**2008**

It happened about three months after he joined (been shanghaied into) the group. He hadn't realized he'd been staring at Alan Garcia, one of his teammates. But he couldn't help it; the guy was... hot. Tall, handsome, intense brown eyes, lean muscle from years of Dakota Stanley acrobatics... Dave was surprised he hadn't had little hearts hanging over his head every time the guy passed by. Not that he was gay or anything, of course. That was just ridiculous.

One day, after rehearsal, Alan approached him.

"Hey."

Dave tried to swallow back his rising stomach; it was the first time he knew of that one of the upperclassmen actually deigned to speak with any freshman newbie, let alone _him_. "Um... Hi."

"David, right?"

"Y-yeah."

"I've noticed you've been staring at me."

Being in Vocal Adrenaline seemed to give the longtime members a gift for bluntness. In the newbies, like Dave, it instilled instead a sense of awed fear. "Uh..."

"Look, team cohesion is everything. If we don't hang together, we hang separately, if you get my meaning."

Dave nodded dumbly; he may've been a newbie, but he got it all too well.

"So if it'll help, I'm going to tell you a couple of things. First, I'm straight. Second, I don't care if you're gay. No one in Vocal Adrenaline cares. Thus, no one at Carmel cares. No one is going to give you a hard time about it. For one thing, it's normal. For another, as long as you can sing and dance — and you can — you're a valued member of the team. The only problem we'll have is if you let your crushes get in the way of team cohesion. Otherwise, we don't give a shit. Got it?"

Dave nodded again. He still didn't trust himself to actually say anything.

"Good." Alan walked away.

It was the last anyone spoke to him about it, although the random casual conversations he actually managed to have with his teammates in between punishing rehearsals seemed to just assume he was gay (God, was he that obvious? Or had Alan talked?).

But still, it was a weird feeling, and an eye-opener. They thought he was normal. Just as Alan said, no one cared that he was gay. Not that he was necessarily gay, of course. Maybe he just hadn't met the right girl yet. Maybe he was bisexual or asexual or something.

But after years of living under his mom's roof, going to his mom's church, listening to Father Johanssen's sermons and political views... He was being exposed to another way.

And he kind of... liked it.

* * *

**2010**

"Yes?" The snappish voice broke Dave out of his memories. The boy from McKinley was glaring at him. "Come to gloat? Or maybe you have another round of rotten eggs for us? Or perhaps you're going to break the heart of another member of our team, just for fun?"

"I— No!" Dave was sweating; why was he sweating? He was perfectly fine a few seconds ago. "I... I wanted to tell you guys that you were great."

"Uh huh," the boy replied skeptically, arms crossed in an almost defensive posture.

"Really, you were. I don't care what the judges thought; you were our strongest competition. And... I wanted to apologize for what the others... we did, especially St. James. I never thought any of it was a good idea to begin with." Here his voice dropped to a whisper. "I think St. James is kind of a douchebag."

The Lima boy exploded in a snort, apparently despite himself. "Well. I'm glad that _someone_ at Carmel is decent. Or at least sane."

Dave chuckled. "Yeah, it's crazy over there. But it's been kinda good for me. It's helped me deal with... a few things. And it's fun."

The boy nodded. "I noticed. You're not like the rest of those automatons. You actually seem to enjoy yourself out there."

_He noticed me_. The very thought stuck Dave's mental stick shift to neutral. It took him almost a minute to get out of it; the other boy raised an eyebrow in what seemed to be amusement. "Um... Yeah. I do. I'm... kind of surprised you... uh... noticed me. St. James usually takes all the attention."

The boy shrugged. "Like I said, you're not like the others. It's kind of hard not to notice."

Dave, with superhuman effort, willed himself into something vaguely resembling calm. He'd been slowly, oh so slowly, starting to acknowledge... something about his sexuality. This... was helping. Or not helping, depending on your point of view. "Oh, uh... I'm Dave." He stuck out a hand.

The boy looked at it suspiciously for a moment, as if looking for a joy buzzer or something. Who could blame him, Dave thought darkly, after what St. James did? But finally, the boy took his hand and shook. Dave tried not to be too loose, or too sweaty, or too tight and oh god what was he doing thinking this much about a freaking handshake? "Kurt."

"Hi." _Too long? Too short?_ He finally let go of Kurt's hand. "Seriously, you guys were great. We'll really have to work hard to beat you next year."

Kurt seemed to be searching his face, probably for any sign of duplicity or scheming. Dave was ridiculously relieved when he relaxed into a sincere smile. "Thanks. You guys were good too. Or you were, at least."

If Dave hadn't been beet red already, he certainly must be by now, considering the heat in his face. He didn't even know if this dude was interested in guys! Or if he himself was interested in guys! Yet some part of him didn't give a shit. "You liar," he said, trying to infuse as much lightheartedness as he could into his words. "You couldn't hear me above everyone else."

Kurt smiled. "Are you so sure? Besides, it's in my best interests to encourage good people in Vocal Adrenaline. Maybe you can help get Jesse St. Douche under control."

This time, it was Dave's nerves, not his throat, that was singing. "Uh..." he said smoothly.

"David!" Giselle called out from behind him. "Come on! Before I tell Jesse you're fraternizing with the enemy!"

Dave looked back to Kurt. "Sorry, I gotta go."

"Go. Shoo. Before you get in trouble." Dave turned, but Kurt's voice sent him whirling back, a pitch perfect heel-turn that even Dakota Stanley would've applauded. "Oh! Dave!"

"Y-yeah?"

"Good luck at Nationals." He smiled sincerely.

"Th-thanks." Dave spun on his heel and fled before he could do or say something else stupid. They were halfway home before his heart finally calmed. Everyone else on the bus was talking about Nationals, but all Dave could think about was next year... When Vocal Adrenaline and New Directions would finally be competing against each other again.

Hell, maybe they'd meet before then, like this year.

That would be... something.

Yeah. Something.


	4. The Unending Spiral of Redemption

**AN: First off, if anyone has any ideas for something I could write about in one of these, feel free to suggest it. I can't promise I'll get to it anytime soon, with my WIPs and my own ideas, but they're always nice to have.**

**So this one was supposed to feature Dave and Pete in a hot tub (reminder: look at the rating of this, and remember I can't write smut to save my life), but the set up was being a little difficult, and I already had this one (among a couple of others) all planned out, so you're getting this one first, because it was coming a lot more easily. Sorry. :)**

**Instead, I looked at my fusion with DC Comics, "Dark Knight Moves," and wondered how I'd cast Dave in a fusion based on Marvel. This was my answer. (Apologies in advance for those of you not fans of Marvel or comics; hopefully you'll get an idea of what's going on anyway.)  
**

Once, when he was young, Dave Karofsky read about the myth of Sisyphus, the ancient king doomed to forever roll a rock up a hill, only to have his labors reset before he could ever complete them.

It was scary how much he thought of that old memory as he himself got older.

Of course, he was a stupid dipshit when he was young. But why not? He was the popular, gregarious football star. Why shouldn't he think he was hot stuff? Why shouldn't be push around Kurt Hummel? The dude was effeminate (not that he used words that big in public; that would betray some modicum of intelligence, and that wouldn't do for his image, not at all), fashionable, _and_ a science nerd. Any one of those three would've earned some dumpster tossing and frozen drinks in the face, but all three at once? The guy was _asking_ for it, right? And it's not like anyone else — peers, teachers, whoever — stopped him. That was just the way it was: strong eating up the weak, just like his mom had taught him. Where she did it with words, piety, and money, he did it with fists and football. Dave "The Fury" Karofsky, one man gridiron wrecking crew. Like the Juggernaut, unstoppable. Man's man.

The kind no one would ever suspect, or even think of suspecting.

Looking back on everything, it all started to change when Spider-Man appeared. Dave was his biggest fan from the get-go. Guy like that, with that kind of strength and agility, beating up superpowered criminals single handedly like they were nothing... He was everything Dave aspired to be, to become. He pored over every newspaper article (except the Daily Bugle, those idiots), every shaky phone video from YouTube, every follower forum where posters would tell of their own encounters.

He began to learn.

For example, Spider-Man wasn't just some mindless bruiser (like him). His running commentaries and wit made Dave laugh out loud more than once — sometimes in the middle of doing something else, triggered by vague memory, which would earn him odd looks from those around him. But he was also something else, something that only someone as obsessive as Dave could've discovered from the bare, flash-quick bits of public information out there: deeply compassionate.

He _cared_. He wasn't in it for the glory or the cameras. He was out there because it was the right thing to do, because other people _mattered_ to him. It wouldn't be obvious to the casual reader (or major metropolitan newspaper editor) just from the big headlines and major blow-ups, but to a fan like Dave, it was clear from the little incidents, the ones that never made the papers: that apartment fire rescue, the drugstore robbery intervention, the sudden arrest of a pimp known for violence and a hair-trigger temper. Individual lives, lives of little meaning or value to most, lives worth a few lines on a police blotter website, at best. Yet the more Dave delved into Spider-Man's career, the more of these he saw, until they drowned out the spectacular attacks by the Green Goblin or Dr. Octopus. They, to Dave, became the entire picture.

Or perhaps more a mirror — and Dave hated what he saw.

Here was Spider-Man: a hero, his hero — a _real_ hero. Someone who believed the best in people. Someone who made an actual fucking difference in the world, who relieved suffering instead of causing it, enriched lives instead of destroying them.

And him? Small fish who thought he was big just because he ruled his little corner of the huge lake. Someone who tore down instead of built up. Someone whose worthless, pathetic life was probably saved by Spider-Man a dozen times over, and he didn't even have the gratitude to _try_ to follow in the footsteps of a man who was supposed to be his hero.

And why? Why was he such an ungrateful fucktard? Because he wasn't raised right? No; his dad was great, and his mom, while not exactly _ideal_ to say the least, never raised a hand against him. Because he was incapable? No; his entire life, his popularity, revolved around his athletic prowess. Besides, Spider-Man was, like, half his size, and could still accomplish amazing things.

No, it was because he was a coward. Plain and simple. No getting around that basic fact. That was his shame. All this time, he was pushing around nerds like Kurt Hummel, when they were a hundred times the man he was. Because they, despite the efforts of people like him, were still themselves. Dave? For all his bluster, not even close.

What a waste. What a fucking waste.

So with his senior year looming, he decided to finally man up. He had absolutely no hope that he could ever become anything, accomplish anything, like his hero Spider-Man, but he couldn't let that keep him from trying. That would be the coward's way out.

First step: take care of things close to home.

From the moment the bell rang on the first class of senior year until the day they walked out onto that stage with their caps and gowns, Kurt Hummel was officially off-limits. It took a few judicious applications of the fist that gave him his nickname to get the point across, but the message got through loud and clear. Even if they thought he'd suddenly become some kind of fag, Dave didn't care. His size and football skill still kept his head above water in terms of popularity — at least enough to survive.

Kurt, for his part, was so frankly astonished that it was hard not to laugh. After Dave laid Scott Cooper flat in an alley for trying to waylay Kurt, he invited Dave for a cup of coffee at the nearby Starbucks, "so we can talk." His heart jumping in a way he couldn't explain, Dave accepted.

What followed was almost an hour of odd, confused looks. Kurt tried a dozen different ways to broach the subject, to ask the question, but couldn't quite do it. Dave, with superhuman effort, managed to keep the grin off his face. It didn't matter whether Kurt ever understood him. Spider-Man didn't need the Daily Bugle to love him to do what _he_ did, after all.

Finally, Kurt rose, shaking his head. "Same time next week?"

Dave shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Sure, whatever."

So every Tuesday afternoon, the two would meet in the same Starbucks, Dave with his plain old coffee, Kurt with his mochiatto-cream-sugar-whatever concoction. Every week, Kurt would struggle to find some way to ask him _why_ without the risk of him dropping his newly found crusade (not that Dave ever would, but he sort of enjoyed Kurt's discomfort too much to even mention that). Every week, Kurt would give up, instead asking about his day, about his home life, about himself. And Dave would answer (even if many of those answers were somewhat edited for public consumption), and ask his own questions. Kurt too would answer, although Dave had the impression that he was also editing his responses. Not that that mattered. Kurt didn't owe Dave a goddamn thing; quite the opposite, in fact.

Which brought to mind the second step.

"So what colleges are you looking at?" Kurt asked one afternoon, sipping at his cup.

"Actually... None." He saw the raised eyebrow, so hastened his next words. "I'm gonna join the Marines."

Kurt carefully put his cup down, blinking at him in what looked an awful lot like concern (but it couldn't be, right? Not with their history). "The... Marines?"

"Yeah. I got the build, I got the grades. I don't think I'll have much problem getting in." Plus, Don't Ask, Don't Tell had just been repealed, so _that_ wouldn't be an issue either.

"You... do know there's a war going on, don't you?"

Dave laughed. "Kind of hard to miss. Don't worry about me, Humm— Kurt." _I'm not worth worrying about._

Yet somehow he did, or seemed like he did. "You're sure about this? I mean, it just seems so—"

"It's something I want to do." _Something I _have _to do. _"Don't worry about me, seriously. Always wanted to put all that Call of Duty to good use anyway." He laughed, but he had the feeling Kurt wasn't fooled.

Graduation came before he knew it. Through it all, Kurt never brought up the Marines again. But his mother did, constantly. Her reasons were much like Kurt's: too dangerous, too far away. Why not a nice safe office job with her department at SueCorp? Or hell, even the police academy? Sure, New York City could be just as dangerous as Afghanistan — sometimes even more so — but at least he'd be in America, with the support of the Avengers and Spider-Man and the mayor.

But Dave stood firm. The morning he left for basic training, he hugged his dad, told his mom he was gay, pecked her on her suddenly shock-stiffened cheek, and went out the door without another word.

Dave poured every ounce of himself into his training. To do any less would be a shame to himself, to Spider-Man, the man who'd turned his life around despite them never even meeting. His slight obsession (or, dare he say it, crush?) towards the superhero had lessened to something more reasonable, but the lessons imparted by him hadn't. So it was no surprise to him when he was tops in every physical test, aced every knowledge exam, could field-strip a dizzying array of arms practically blindfolded. After all, every moment he sweated under blistering heat, every moment he read until his eyes blurred, every moment he practiced the same fluid motions at his bunk again and again and again... It was all to lead up to those very goals.

He was sent overseas the moment Basic ended, to his relief. He landed where he was needed, the sun glaring off the tarmac and the sand getting in his hair.

Hoo rah.

Over the next months and years, Dave's deployments were blurs of activity. Always the first one in and the last one out. First to volunteer, last to ask for leave. He knew some of his superiors thought he was some kind of glory hound, but he didn't care. Hell, they might've been more concerned if they'd known his true reasons.

After all, he didn't give much of a shit whether he made it back alive. Not that he had a death wish, or that he was careless, but if he was forced to choose between him living or any civilian, or even the worst member of his patrol or squad, it would be the other guy, without hesitation. He always knew he was treading water with his life. He always knew that even his best, his hard-earned best born of more sweat and tears than he thought he was capable of, might not be enough to expiate the sins of his misspent youth. If he had to weigh his own potential against that of the squad goof-off, a village child, the elderly farmer trying to eke out a living in the Afghani desert... He wasn't at all sure he would win. So he did what he had to, and fortunately, he'd always come out of it in one piece.

But if one day he didn't... Well, maybe _then_ he'd have come close to a fraction of the good Spider-Man had already done.

On his visits home between deployments, his father was ebullient, his mom silent (though whether from concern or condemnation of his sexuality — the elephant in the room — he was never sure). As for Kurt, it was Tuesdays at the Starbucks, just like in high school. He was flourishing, as Dave knew he would without his poisonous influence. Between his college studies and work at the Daily Bugle (Dave would often ask when they'd lay off Spider-Man; Kurt would always laugh bitterly and say that was up to his boss), Kurt was becoming the man he was meant to be.

Dave hoped — prayed — he was doing the same.

Dave had been in the Marines for years, accepting any and every chance to extend his tours, when it all came crashing down. He didn't even have a chance to save anyone — it was an IED they didn't see coming. Watching two of his squad mates twitch on the desert road, bleeding to death in front of him... It was worse than his own agony, because it brought the weight of disappointment, of failure. _You failed. You failed them. You failed yourself._ When he heard the voices approach, he almost hoped they were insurgents. But no, they were speaking English. When he drifted off into blackness, he wondered if he wanted to wake up or not.

He did, minus half his legs. It was a miracle, they said, that he'd survived. If he'd gotten first aid just a few minutes later, he probably would've bled out.

Then came the big cliche, the one he'd been dreading: they said he was lucky.

No, Dave was definitely not lucky.

His superiors were shaken; he was one of the best, they said, and they'd miss him. Not that Dave gave a shit; they weren't the ones who might bleed and die because he wasn't there to help. He knew it was arrogant of him, assuming that the Marines couldn't survive without him; they probably would, and very well, in fact. But he couldn't do anything about it either way, not anymore. That's what tortured his soul.

He was quiet as he left the hospital. He was quiet as he was shipped home. He was quiet as his parents' tears dripped onto the top of his head like rain. And the first Tuesday after he arrived home, he was quiet as Kurt Hummel chatted from the other side of the Starbucks table. But Kurt wouldn't let him be, not for long.

"David." The voice was firm, yet gentle. "David." He looked up from his coffee. "I'm so glad you're alive."

"Yeah," Dave rasped, not entirely sure how much of a lie it was. "Me too."

Kurt paused, staring at Dave for a long moment. He was used to staring by now; the wheelchair alone tended to attract attention. But this... this was a different gaze. It wasn't so much looking at him physically — at the disability — as much as it was somehow looking _inside _him. "It's okay, Dave," he finally said in a whisper. "You did all you could." Dave froze; it almost sounded like Kurt _knew_. But that was ridiculous; how could he? "You've been forgiven for years, by all the people that matter." He reached over, resting a hand over one of Dave's; it was so soft, so warm, that Dave wasn't sure if he wanted to stay like that forever, or to get up on his non-existent legs and run. "You can rest. You can stop now."

No, he decided, Kurt really _didn't_ understand. How could he possibly know about the guilt, chasing after you day in and day out, about the constant _need_ to make things right even though you knew it was impossible in the short lifetime humans had?

He didn't understand. There was no "stop." That was not an option. If he stopped, he was admitting defeat. He was wasting his second chance. He was spitting on everything Spider-Man believed in, everything he'd taught him.

But... What was there? What _could_ he do without his legs?

In the ensuing weeks, Dave spiraled into depression. He put up a good face with Kurt, but wasn't always sure how much the other man was fooled. When his parents insisted he go out more, he went out — and got his own apartment, so he wouldn't have to listen to them again or feel their concern. There was a liquor store barely a block away; every night, alone with the stars and his thoughts, he considered it — considered wheeling himself there, buying as much as he could fit on his lap, and drinking the guilt away, or at least dulling it for a while. But visceral disgust (lingering from the days when he felt like he had to stay in control, lest he let slip the unusual lusts in his heart) and inertia always won out. So he stayed in, and stared out his window, and brooded. He wondered if he'd ever catch a glimpse of Spider-Man, swinging to some crime scene or major supervillain attack.

Dave hoped not. He didn't think he could take Spider-Man's inevitable disappointment.

It was a Tuesday the knock on the door came. He knew this because he'd just realized that he was going to be late for his weekly coffee with Kurt. He was trying to figure out if he had time to shave the ten o'clock shadow before he left when he heard the knock.

"Sergeant Karofsky?" the man in the grey suit and sunglasses asked.

His name was Dr. Carl Howell, and he was a government researcher, complete with impressive credentials from an agency he'd never heard of. Afterward, Dave could only remember bits and pieces of the ensuing conversation — but they were the important bits.

"I've read your service record. You're a fine Marine."

"_Was_ a fine Marine. As you can see, I'm not going back into service anytime soon."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Dave's head snapped up. He knew, of course, of the kind of technology that the Fantastic Four and Arthur Abrams could whip up, but such devices were years away from public consumption. Their components were too delicate, their fuel supplies too rare, their workings too poorly understood (except by their makers) to be even playthings of the rich and powerful. _No one_ got their hands on that kind of stuff. Except maybe highly placed government scientists like Dr. Carl Howell.

"You... you can give me back my legs?"

"Your legs... and your purpose in life. Interested?"

If the prospect of walking again hadn't sold Dave, the idea that he could continue his work again would have. Three days later, he was in a lab somewhere in Washington D.C., staring at a huge plexiglass tube. Seeing the writhing black shape within, he felt something he hadn't felt for a long time: fear. Cold, hard fear.

"Is that what I think it is?" he whispered.

"The Venom symbiote?" Howell said casually as he watched the undulating mass of shadow and teeth. "It is."

"This is how you're going to give me back my legs?" Dave said hoarsely. "Are you fucking insane?"

Even those who knew little about Spider-Man knew about Venom: the shapeshifting creature that hitched a ride to Earth with Spider-Man as a costume. From there, it bonded with a former reporter named Sebastian Smythe, becoming a rampaging Spider-Man hating menace, then a dark vigilante. It passed through other hands after that, giving its hosts strength, agility, shapeshifting powers, and eventually, amoral insanity, until it vanished... apparently into the hands of the government.

And there it was. Despite its lack of eyes, Dave almost thought it was... looking at him.

"You know what that... thing does!" Dave continued, almost unable to accept what he was seeing. "How the fuck could you think this is anything _close_ to a good idea?"

"There's been more... experimentation with this species than you might think," Howell replied calmly. "We know quite a bit about it: its capabilities, its behavior, its... limitations. For example, did you know that it takes a minimum of 48 hours for the symbiote to affect its host's mental capacity?"

_Oh, God, they actually fucking mean this._ Dave knew he should be demanding to be taken home right now, to not have any part of this insanity. But something kept him there. No, not "something"... He knew exactly what. It went by many names, but one of the most basic, and most deceiving, was "hope." "Yeah?" he said through parched dry lips.

Howell nodded. "It can be controlled, but only by someone of remarkable will," he said, still staring at the trapped alien thing, as if he were speaking directly to it. "It can be turned to useful purpose, but only by someone of remarkable strength and training. With the help of some control nodes I've invented, of course." He turned to Dave. "David — do you mind if I call you David? — we were thinking of recruiting you even before you lost your legs. But we didn't think the Marine brass would let you go. But now..." He shrugged. "They may not have anything but a desk job for you, but your, ah, handicap doesn't matter to us. Thanks to _that_." He gestured towards the symbiote. "I wouldn't have brought you here, shown you this, if I didn't think you were the man for the job. There are a lot of bad guys out there, the kind we can't take down with the CIA or NSA, and we can't afford to wait for the Avengers or Spider-Man to get around to them. We have to be... proactive." He regarded Dave for a long moment before continuing. "The good you could do is almost limitless."

It was as though he _knew_ what those words would do to him. Dave stared at the roiling black thing, shuddering. He remembered what it had done to Spider-Man, what it was capable of doing. He'd be running a risk, no question. But would it be more selfish to take it on, or to refuse it, and let someone else take that risk for him?

"Oh, and you'll get a promotion, of course," Howell continued with a tight grin. "If the money means anything to you." Dave felt like he was a clinical trial patient or experimental subject, the way Howell watched his every eye twitch, his every finger tap. "What will it be, Sergeant? Go back home to New York, drink yourself to death waiting for the end to come? Or are you going to pick back up where you left off?"

It was unfair, of course, the way he phrased it; Dave knew it was meant to prod him. But somehow... he couldn't bring himself to care. This was his second chance — his second chance to make things right. He couldn't let it slip through his fingers, not again.

So it was, months later, that Dave found himself standing (though not on his own legs, but on pretend appendages formed by an alien symbiote) on a rooftop on the outskirts of Brasilia. All the windows in the warehouse before him were dark, but the intelligence had been very clear: at that very moment, a major weapons shipment meant for high-bidding terrorists overseas was being prepared for departure.

"I'm going in," he muttered into his earpiece as he loaded his Multi-Gun. The clip snapped home with a sharp click.

"Roger. Good luck, Agent Venom."

He cut off the connection; he felt "his" leg muscles bunch, ready to make the leap. The symbiote formed a mask over his face, a somewhat slimy feeling that Dave still wasn't quite used to.

He jumped, knowing that the symbiote's strength and agility would give him a perfect, harmless landing without a thought. He thought of Spider-Man, and wondered if he'd be horrified or proud. But in the moments before, before the running and the gunfire and the yelling, he drank in the moment.

Dave allowed himself to revel in the brief freedom of flight.


	5. Double Coverage

**Boy, I do a lot of AUs. But there's this collection of clips from ****_Queer as Folk_**** (US) circulating amongst Dave fans on Tumblr where certain parallels were drawn between character Drew Boyd and Dave (trivia: the maker of that video was specifically inspired by a certain Glee storyline; hmmmm). Seeing as how the fiancee in the QAF plot was Sierra, a name that begins with S and ended with A, I couldn't resist another fusion. Besides, it came out (pun intended) pretty quickly, so why not?  
**

**Hot tub next time, I swear.**

Dave sighed as he twitched back the curtain. Didn't these fuckers have lives?

Fine, they did; _this_ was their purpose in life: to get the story. And right now, unfortunately, that was _him_.

It still felt surreal, as if it'd happened in a dream, and not real life. He'd actually come out on live national television. Until the last second, when the word "yes" left his lips, he still wasn't certain he was going to do it. It was thinking of Kurt, of him watching, of him being _disappointed_ if he denied it... It was almost an impulse. (Not that he was certain that Kurt would be watching, but fuck, if he wasn't, he'd be able to see it on any national news or sports channel any time between now and doomsday.) So there he was: the first openly gay football player in the league — though who knew for how long he'd have the game he loved? Still, he supposed there was a certain inevitability to it; from the moment he hired Hudmel Catering for that party, everything was building towards that "yes." It would've happened some way, some how. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

Dave was starting to wonder what the closest foreign country was where they hadn't heard of this already (Guatemala? Costa Rica?) when he heard the rapid beats of high-heeled shoes on hardwood rapidly approaching. He looked up, startled, as a beautiful Hispanic woman stalked towards him, a glower stamped over her features.

"Santana? How the hell did you get past—" The crack of his fiancee's hand against his cheek drowned out the murmur of the press outside for a brief instant. He didn't mind the physical pain — he'd felt much worse on the field, and besides, it was a welcome relief from the emotional turmoil of the past few months. "Nice to see you too," he muttered as he rubbed his cheek.

"We had a _deal_," she snarled.

"Right. Operative word being 'had'. As in not anymore."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me first? Why did I have to find this out on TV?"

"Because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it," Dave replied calmly. "Besides, I hadn't really decided. Not until..."

Santana groaned. "Oh, fuck, this is because of _him_, isn't it? Your mincing little princess of a caterer."

"Hey, don't talk about Kurt like that..."

"I'll talk about him any way I want! He blew our arrangement! _And_ you, most likely!" Santana huffed, running her fingers through her long black hair. "It would've been perfect. No one would've had to know. We could've just lived the way we wanted, and no one would've had to be the wiser..."

"Except for the little detail of us living complete and total lies."

"Because lying is _safe_," Santana hissed. "Look out there! There's your proof!" She waved her hand at the window, circular flashes of light piercing the glass at almost hypnotic intervals. "What's so great about the truth, anyway? What's so great about being out? That another little rainbow fantasy your precious caterer put into your stupid thick skull? _How the fuck could you do this to me?_"

She was as close to tears as he'd ever seen her. Dave hadn't thought her capable of them. He gently touched her arm; she jerked it away so violently she almost fell. Dave sighed, dropping into a chair. "I was just so tired, San," he rasped. "Tired of lying. Tired of fighting my feelings every single fucking day..."

"Feelings," Santana snorted. "Look where they get you. We had the perfect arrangement _because_ there were no feelings to fuck shit up. Then you get involved with your caterer, and look what happens. Happy little gay _feelings_ sprouting up all over the fucking place. You didn't even think about what this would do to me, did you?"

"I didn't out you, just me. Besides, you're seriously telling me that if you had a chance with that artist chick, you wouldn't have dropped _me_ without a second thought?"

Santana sighed. "Okay, fine, I suppose not even I'd take myself seriously if I denied it." She draped herself over his couch, stretching her entire perfectly sculpted form over its entire length. She crossed her legs, smooth and gleaming in the overhead lights. Santana loved showing herself off, so Dave was constantly confronted with the uncomfortable fact that the sight of his fiancee in such provocative states did absolutely nothing for him. He ignored this for as long as he could; he supposed that's one big reason he became so tired. It just wore him down. "You seriously think this is worth it?" she asked quietly. Dave's head snapped up; he knew she wasn't asking the question just out of idle curiosity. "All that?" She waved at the window. "Everything else that still might happen?"

Dave rubbed his eyes, sighing. "I... I don't know."

"Then why do it?"

"I told you why..."

"Okay, fine, truth. People get to know the _real_ you. You get to stop having to make out with me in public and pretend you like it." She paused for a moment. "Huh, I suppose that's a plus for me too." She smiled wryly; Dave couldn't help but chuckle. "But seriously, the shit hasn't fully hit the fan yet. I know you know that. So your soul is free to fly or what the fuck ever. But is it worth it?"

"I guess... I'll let you know."

There was a long silence. Dave could barely hear the muffled voice of an ESPN reporter taping an update outside. Finally, Santana rose, a put-upon look on her face. "Fine. That'll have to do for now. It's too late to do anything about it anyway. Just... next time, make sure I'm in the loop, okay? You owe me that much for having to paw you all this time."

"Hey, it's not like you got nothing out of the deal. Besides, once you sell your story, get on a few talk shows? You'll be hot shit. I bet you'll get more tail than ever."

Santana seemed to think about this for a moment. "Huh. You might be right about that. Nice." She smiled wickedly. Then the smile slipped off her face, and she opened her arms. "C'mere, you big gay dork." He took in the embrace; it was warm, comfortable — two words that actually couldn't be used to describe the seemingly affectionate hugs they shared in public as a couple. This... this was natural. This was okay. Because there was no pretense to it, no external purpose. They only separated after a long minute. "Well, back out into the feeding frenzy. Let's do lunch sometime." She picked up her purse and began to leave. As she strode towards the stairs, she tossed out over her shoulder, as if as an afterthought, "Oh, yeah, and tell that caterer of yours that if he fucks up, his next job will be serving his own testicles at an Old Country Buffet."

Dave laughed. "Sure. Whatever."

"He'd better be worth it!" And she was gone.

Dave exhaled, a long slow rush of breath. He knew exactly when Santana made it out the front door; he could almost physically feel the draw of the media scrum's attention focus on her. That, and the shriek of "Yo, media leeches! I got a statement to make!" He listened distractedly at the window, hearing only bits and pieces of what she was saying: phrases like "talked things over" and "we remain friends" and "leave him the fuck alone, you assbags." Or something like that.

He was still considering Santana's question. Yeah, there was probably worse to come, a lot worse. He'd probably be booted off the team — suspended at best. Some of the guys would probably be mad — _real_ mad. He thought and hoped they knew him better than that, that they were friends, but in the world of pro sports? It seemed rather unlikely. The death threats were starting to trickle in. And the publicity wasn't going to be going away anytime soon, even if he did lose everything else.

So was it worth it?

His phone buzzed — his _new_ phone, the one whose number only a select few people had, as opposed to the old one sitting in a drawer in his bedroom with the full-to-bursting voicemail and text message inboxes. Dave pulled it out; the "Sender" name made his entire chest jump. It was a name he hadn't heard from in a couple of days, not since the craziness began (not that they'd had much of a chance to communicate in the tumult anyway). His upper lip suddenly sweating, he nervously thumbed the screen, and the text opened.

It was short and simple.

_I am so proud of you._

So was it worth it?

It was getting there.


	6. Ship Building

**AN: Yes, _still_ no hot tub. I swear I'll get to it, and to my two WIPs. But I just happened to have this, and decided to share.**

**I wrote this for Camunki, whose current obsession with a certain TV show and a certain pairing on that TV show I found kinda cute. So I wrote this to combine her two great loves. :) She found it "cute." I hope you do too.**

**(PS: I also signed up for the Kurtofsky Gift Exchange now ongoing on Tumblr. That'll probably get me off by butt and writing again in general. Just so's ya know.)**

"I don't get it," Dave said, shaking his head.

"What's not to get?" The couch rippled as Kurt threw himself into the empty space next to him.

"I mean, for one thing, neither of them are gay."

"Oh, David, your naïveté is adorable. You think that actually matters."

"It kind of does, y'know."

Kurt shook his own head in something resembling pity. "You have so much to learn, young one. I will school you in the ways of fanon another time."

Dave chose to ignore this. "For another thing, they don't get along _at all_..."

"That's what makes it fun. The unresolved sexual tension."

"What unresolved—"

"Have you not been paying attention? Have you not seen the smoldering glances? The unnecessary contact? The raw erotic energy just _zipping_ between them?"

Dave raised an eyebrow in askance. "Sometimes I worry about you, dude. Okay, then, here's the third thing: they're nothing alike! One of them is this brooding muscley loner (oh, and yeah, loner? That means 'wants to be alone.' As in, no boyfriend), and the other is a snarky and I gotta admit kinda cute sidekick who's, like, the only sane one in the entire damn show besides maybe his dad and..." He threw up his hands. "I just can't see them together. Like I said, they're nothing alike!"

"Some might argue that that's exactly why they're so good together. Instead of just being carbon copies of the same person, they... complement each other. Fill in each other's holes." Kurt blushed at Dave's smirk. "You know what I mean! I mean their differences is exactly what makes them perfect together. They make each other stronger. They get something from each other that they themselves lack. They're not just mirror images; they... complete each other."

There was a long silence, unbroken save for the commercial on TV. Dave coughed.

"And they're hot, of course," Kurt said hurriedly, sweeping up the remote control in his free hand.

"Fine," Dave said, shifting in his seat, "I'll definitely give them that."

"So!" Kurt's voice was a little shrill, a little loud, as he switched on the digital recording menu. "Ready for season two? Your doubts will be assuaged, I promise!"

"I guess, as long as I don't have to say 'Sterek' again. It's a stupid name!"

"Of course you'd think that. You have no sense of fun or whimsey."

"'Whimsey'? Uh, yeah, I don't have any of that, and thank fucking God." Already the atmosphere felt lighter, as though something heavy, or at least emotionally weighty, had been temporarily chased away, leaving relief at _normalcy_ to flood in in its place.

"Spoilsport." Kurt hit the play button.

"So, does Derek at least get shirtless again?"

"Hmm. For any given episode, I'd say it's a... 45% chance?"

"_Awesome_."


	7. Heated Discussion

**_Finally... _A kinda sorta follow-up to "Therapeutic," mostly involving Pete the waiter, who ended up being more popular than I thought...**

Dave knew what he _should_ be feeling, being in a hot tub alone with a hunky guy. Only he wasn't — not entirely.

After all, the "hunky guy" was Pete McCoy, and even though this is the first time Dave had ever seen him with his shirt off (and by God it was better than he'd ever imagined), he really didn't want to fuck up the friendship he had now. Both of them were visiting home from college (Dave from UCLA, Pete from Florida State), and this was the first time they'd spoken face-to-face since summer. Pete's mom was president of the HOA of the ritzy development his family lived in, so when Pete waved a bunch of keys in his face and suggested an after-hours dip in the rec center hot tub to chase away the winter chill, Dave jumped at the chance.

Not that he thought that anything would _happen_, of course, besides a nice warm soak and whatever catching up they didn't already do over Skype or texting. Pete hadn't said or done a single flirty thing since they first met at that restaurant during the summer, and to be frank, Dave was kind of relieved. For one thing, he needed a friend a _lot_ more than he needed a boyfriend, and Pete was a good one — always ready with a patient and sympathetic ear, goddamn funny, and possessing scarily encyclopedic knowledge of _Avatar: the Last Airbender_. For another, Pete's Facebook page had still tons of archived photos of him with a couple of ex-boyfriends, both of whom were built and hot like Pete. Dave knew for sure he couldn't compete with _that_. He was so far from Pete's type that he might as well have been on Pluto.

So who knew what that night at the restaurant was about, really? Maybe Pete also felt Dave was better as just a friend; after all, Dave had been very honest with Pete, told him a _lot_ about his past over the past few months. If Pete thought that Dave was too broken to be a lover... Well, he couldn't honestly disagree.

The water was chest-high to them both; they leaned back against opposite sides of the tub, the rest of their bodies lost under the bubbles. This was a relief to Dave; hell, he'd jumped into the water the first moment he could. One reason was, very frankly, insecurity. When Pete took his shirt off, fully revealing his chiseled abs and muscled pecs, Dave's own body suddenly felt very ugly and flabby indeed. Then there was the _other_ reason, the south of the border reason... Pete did _not_ need to see _that_.

They laughed; God, they laughed a lot. Dave had his frat brothers ("The guy has a 4.0 GPA, but give him a couple of beers, and he thinks he's on fucking _Jackass_."), Pete his best friend and "aspiring fag hag" Colleen ("... Then she said that she had alternate ID, and she _flashed_ the dude! He asked her out on the spot... and she _fucking said yes_.").

"So how does it feel?" Pete was grinning, his eyes twinkling in the dim artificial light, yet there was an edge of seriousness to his voice that brought Dave up short. "Your first few months being out in Los Angeles?"

Dave knew Pete well enough by now to know exactly how to interpret the question. "It's..." But was there a single word to sum it up, what it felt like? To be himself, to be _gay_, and to have the majority reaction be a shrug, a lighthearted joke, or repeated attempts to hook him up with guys? He'd stepped into a whole new world, after all, almost a Twilight Zone; how could he express all the relief, all the gratitude, all the joy, in just one word?

"... Awesome."

He nearly slapped his own forehead. But Pete just nodded sagely.

"It is. I never would've thought it myself, back when I was in the closet, but there it is. The worst part was when people just wouldn't believe me."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, I get some of that still. 'You can't be gay.' Because I'm not swishy or what the fuck ever."

"It's just ignorance. They don't know all the gay stereotypes, so they don't know the ones we fit into. Gym bunny..." He tapped himself on his burly chest. "Bear." He pointed at Dave, who chuckled. "So have you gotten out to the clubs or anything since we last talked?"

Dave shook his head. "Nah, it's still not my thing."

"But I thought you said you went to that bar in Lima all the time?"

"That was because I didn't really have anywhere else to go to be gay. Now that I'm out, it's like I don't need it as much? If that makes sense."

Pete nodded slowly. "I think so."

"Besides, I'm kinda busy. This is the first time I've actually relaxed in months. Otherwise, it's been schoolwork, frat stuff, parties..."

"Ah, freshman year. Magical time. I remember it fondly." Pete stretched out his arms around the rim of the hot tub, his chest gleaming with pinpoints of light reflected off water droplets. Dave tried not to stare. "Decided on your major yet?"

"Not yet. Thinking about mathematics... It's just hard to think about the future sometimes."

"Yeah?"

Dave nodded. "It's like... I still have a lot of shit to work through. You know that; I tell you about it nearly every freaking day. I still wonder what's possible for me, you know? Even if my head were screwed on straight, what I did — to others and myself, I mean — it's still going to have an impact on the rest of my life. I still wonder if it's possible to get through all that, or if I messed everything up before I ever really got started..."

Pete was silent for a long moment; Dave listened to the bubbles popping around him. "You know who my favorite Star Wars character is?" Pete finally said. Before Dave could question this sudden change of topic, he continued. "Anakin Skywalker. I mean, he's a really interesting character. He was this really special kid who got snatched up and molded by everyone around him into doing things he didn't want to do. He reacted by lashing out and doing some incredibly stupid and destructive things. He crashed hard, and he decided he deserved it. He hated himself so much, he let the misery around him continue for years... Until he found out that not everything he loved was dead. Then he stood up for that — and in doing that, he went a long way to undoing the damage he'd done. And he redeemed himself."

Dave looked up at Pete... then scooped up some water in his hand and splashed Pete in the face, laughing as he sputtered. "Did you just compare me to Darth fucking Vader? Seriously, dude?"

Pete wiped his eyes, chuckling. "All I'm saying is that if a guy who genocided entire planets can find some kind of peace... So can you."

"Sure, if someone like George Lucas is writing the script. In real life, whoever's doing it is a real fucking bastard, so I'm not holding my breath."

"You need an attitude adjustment, man. I think you need to get laid."

"Don't I know it."

"So when are you? College is supposed to be for drinking and promiscuous sex. Everybody knows that."

Dave snickered. "Is that what _you_ do?"

"Drink? Hell, yeah. Sex? Eh, that's a different thing entirely. I take it more seriously than most guys. I guess that's where my breakups came from. At least a big part of it."

"Then those guys were morons."

"Thank you, I agree. But you didn't answer my question."

Dave stretched out for a moment before answering. "Who'd want to?"

"What? Have sex with you?"

"Yeah. Or even anything before that. I mean, even if they got past the looks part, once they find out about what I used to be, that'd be a major buzzkill right there."

Pete frowned. "You still think that about yourself? I thought you were still seeing a therapist in California to get past all that."

"Yeah. But I'm still working on it. It's kind of hard when just thinking about being in a relationship makes me remember what I've done."

"Well, stop it. Okay, fine, I know it's not that easy, but seriously, people are more understanding than you think. I mean, you dump all sorts of stuff on me and I still like you."

"You put up with way too much of my shit to be normal."

"I have the patience of a saint, yes. But seriously, you're my friend. The good you bring into my life is more than worth listening to you whinge. I'm happy to be of help to you. I think you'll find that a lot more people are like me than you think."

Dave leaned back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, concentrating on the relaxing warmth. "Yeah, well, to answer your question, unless you know a guy who wants to make out with a tubby pale dude with major issues, I don't think I'll be getting any anytime soon."

"What if I offered?"

Dave was suddenly conscious that Pete's voice was a _lot_ closer now. He opened his eyes, and yes, Pete was now sitting right next to him, turned towards him; he could barely feel Pete's breath, even through the heat wafting off the surface of the roiling water.

"You forget, my friend, that you tell me everything. You've hardly ever done anything with a guy, have you? You're a little afraid to?"

Dave tried to speak; he couldn't.

"Maybe because you don't want to make the first move, because you're afraid that you'll hurt him like you did Kurt? Or because you still don't think you deserve to have a man in your life? Or because there's still that little lingering bit of your mom's and your pastor's voice in your head, telling you that it's dirty and shameful and wrong?" Pete cocked his head a little, a small gentle smile coming over him. "Well, they're kinda right about the dirty part, anyway."

Dave laughed, a shrill, piercing sound that he couldn't quite believe came out of his own throat. His heart pounded in his ears. Pete was _so_ close, it was like he was all that _was_ in the fucking world... "Maybe... maybe a little of all of that."

Pete nodded. "I... I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do, or make you uncomfortable, but... I want you to know that if you did want to... touch me, that's okay. _I _want you to. You should know what it's like, before you meet someone who just wants a one night stand. And fuck it, I'm here, so why not?"

"Uh..."

"Come on, it's okay. I want to make sure..."

"I... God, Pete, I..."

"You do?" The smile grew wider.

"Y-yeah..."

"So why aren't you?"

"I..." _I don't know._ Maybe it was fear, or shock, or just general paralysis in the face of what was happening. All he knew was that his arms were like lead; for all he was screaming at them to move, they weren't.

Pete seemed to know this too (and God, how the fuck did he know Dave so well, with only a few months even knowing each other?). He gently took hold of Dave's wrists and guided them up out of the water. He placed Dave's shaking hands onto his chest. Dave's breath hitched, feeling the soft skin and hard muscle under his fingers. "It's okay, Dave," Pete repeated softly. "I want you to."

Dave had no idea what kind of dam broke, but break it did. He ran his hands up and down Pete's chest, his palms tickling against the sodden wisps of chest hair that hung here and there. His hands ran upward — because as much as he wanted to, he knew it was _way_ too soon to go in the _other_ direction — over the curves of Pete's shoulders and down his triceps, feeling the cables of muscle under the skin.

There he paused, his hands gripping Pete's arms. The journey had been achingly, painfully slow, but Pete hadn't moved a centimeter the entire time; he just looked Dave right in the eyes, his own bright and encouraging. Soon Dave felt Pete's hands on his arms, right where his were on Pete's. "I... I want to..."

"Shut up and do it," Dave growled.

It was Dave's second kiss — at least, the second that counted. It had a better life even before it started, not being born out of desperation and loneliness. This one was born of more honest emotions; while his first had been harsh and needy, this one was gentle and tender. There wasn't even any tongue, or an attempt at it; it was as though Pete was deliberately treading lightly, afraid of scaring Dave off somehow.

_Like he could ever do that._

It only lasted a few seconds of objective time; Dave was pretty sure of that. But in his mind, it was both forever and a disappointing eyeblink of time when their lips separated. It was only then that Dave was conscious of the embrace that had come with the kiss, the press of Pete's muscular form against his, their arms wrapped over each other's torsos. It was only after a long minute looking into each other's eyes (and damn, Pete's was an awesome shade of green; how could he have forgotten how beautiful they were?) that they reluctantly parted.

"Wow..." Pete breathed.

"Yeah. Wow."

"That... That was... really great."

"Definitely," Dave huffed, chuckling. "Kind of unexpected, though."

"Why?"

"Because... I never figured you'd be interested in someone like me that way."

"Are you kidding? I flirted with you the first time we met! How could you interpret that in any other way than 'I want us to hump like bunnies'?"

Dave's own laughter just barely managed to penetrate his roiling mind. "I thought... I don't know what I thought. Maybe I thought you were just angling for a better tip. Or... Fuck, I saw those photos of your exes, so I figured I never had a chance!"

"Hey, I can be attracted to more than one type! Are _you_ just attracted to guys like Kurt?"

Dave's laughter stopped as he paused to consider. Kurt and Pete were about as polar opposites as you could get physically, true. But their personalities... They were both outgoing, headstrong, smart, compassionate... Their _souls_ were much the same.

"I know I might've fucked things up between us," Pete continued, "but damn, Dave, I just couldn't take it anymore. It just hurts when you put yourself down when you're such a sweet guy."

"Me? Sweet? Shut up!" Dave was pretty sure he was probably blushing, but thank God he couldn't feel it over the heat of the hot tub.

"I'm serious! I didn't know you back when you were in the closet and lashing out. I just know you now, and that's what you are. You're _loved_, man. You got your dad, your brother, your friends in California..." Pete swallowed audibly. "Me..."

"Christ, Pete, you're embarrassing me. Or yourself. I can't tell which yet." On some level, Dave knew he was trying to deflect, puncture the mood, so he wouldn't have to deal with his complicated mess of emotions. He hoped he'd fail. Fortunately for him, he did.

"I love you, Dave." Pete had half turned away at his own words, but locked eyes with Dave once more, almost pleading. "Not exactly in _that_ way — I mean, we've only known each other for a few months, and I kinda hate that people just assume that love has to be romantic — but I do. I love you. Yeah, you're fucking hot, but you're a great guy and a good friend, and that's more important. _That's_ why I care about you."

"Bet you say that to all the guys," Dave rumbled, not at all sincerely.

"To all my _real_ friends? Absolutely. But that's a _very_ selective group. You ask Colleen sometime."

"Do you kiss your real friends too?"

Pete blushed. "That was... that was impulse. I'm sorry if—"

"Seriously? You really think you need to apologize to me for _that_? If so, you're more delusional than I thought."

"It's just that we got this great thing going, being friends, but I'm really attracted to you and I don't want to screw up what we have..." Pete frowned, raising an eyebrow as Dave collapsed against the side of the hot tub, laughing. "Okay, I know there's a reason, but I don't know what it is right now..."

"Dude..." Dave gasped between peals of laughter. "Dude, I..." He finally managed to calm himself enough to speak. "Pete, I feel the same way about you."

"Yeah?" The word was casual, but it was tinged with a kind of painful hope that Dave could relate to, all too well.

"Yeah. I didn't want to screw up our friendship either. I mean, I'd rather have you as a friend than not at all, and I... I guess I was scared." _The way I always am._ The same fear that drove him to terrorize others. The same fear that put him in the closet, literally and figuratively. The same fear that Pete and Jack and California were eating away at, inch by inch, until maybe someday, it would be nothing but a tiny marble of helplessness, rolling almost ignored deep in his gut. "And... I love you too. The same way you do, I mean. You're the best friend I've had in a long time."

Pete inhaled, a sharp breath of emotion. "So..."

"So...?"

"So... where do we go from here? I mean, one of the reasons I kind of put this whole thing off is that we're on opposite sides of the country, and the long distance thing..."

"I know," Dave nearly whispered. "But... You've only got one more year at Florida State after this, right? What do you want to do after that? Where do you want to go?"

Pete shook his head. "I'm... not sure. I kinda wanted to stay on the East Coast, maybe Virginia or New York, but I know you want to stay in California after college, and..."

"You don't have to follow me, you know." _Even though I kind of want you to._ The realization that he wanted Pete to do what he wanted more than he wanted Pete to be with him was kind of liberating — and scary, because he knew it probably meant something about his feelings for Pete that he wasn't exactly sure how to deal with. Then again, it seemed they were both in that boat.

"Yeah. I know." They fell silent again; Dave kicked under the water, feeling its weight flow around his feet and ankles. "Maybe... maybe we could just take it slow, y'know? See where things go? We can get together here during the holidays. Maybe I could come visit you..."

"Or I could come visit you..."

"Yeah." Pete smiled. "That'd be great. Anyway, we could just see what happens. Maybe I'll change my mind about the East Coast..."

"Or I'll get sick of California and being so close to Jack..."

"But we've got time. And in the meanwhile, we have our friendship. If that's as far as we went... I think I'd be okay with it."

Dave nodded slowly. "Yeah. Me too."

This time the silence was comfortable. They had a plan. Maybe they didn't know where they'd end up, but where they were now wasn't so bad at all, and that was a lot more than a lot of people got.

"So..." Dave began, propping his hands onto the edge of the hot tub, "you ready for me to kick your ass at Halo again?"

"Uh... Not yet. I, uh... I think I want to stay in a little bit more." Pete blushed, his eyes flickering towards the surface of the water right in front of him. It somehow reminded Dave of himself when he first got into the tub, and... Oh.

_Oh_.

He'd done that. He, Dave Karofsky, had done that to the built, sweet, smart, _hot_ Pete McCoy. He couldn't keep the smug smirk off his face as he settled back in.

"Why don't I keep you company, then?"

"Yeah... Thanks." Pete was still blushing. The water bubbled around them.

"So... Am I going to have to leave you alone when we get back to your house?"

"Shut up, Dave."

"Or I could just leave you alone here for a while. They got some soap in the locker room..."

"Shut _up_, Dave."

Dave laughed as he got his own faceful of hot chlorinated water.


End file.
